


Unclean

by GrumpiestCat



Category: The Inside (TV)
Genre: Disturbing Content, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:09:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8007421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpiestCat/pseuds/GrumpiestCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She remembers what it was like to be loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unclean

She remembers what it was like to be loved.   
  
Before everything, there are vague memories, polluted but there, of what it was like when the parents could stand to touch her. Before they saw her as dirty and broken and tainted, before there were medical records in which (not) everything was recorded in clinical detail. She knows those moments exist because there are pictures at the house, proving that she knew how to smile, because otherwise he wouldn't have tried so hard to convince her that they never happened.   
  
It never rains, but it's raining today. If she were Paul, she would think that the rain was sent down by God to wash her clean.  
  
Except the rain is slick and filthy and disgusting, water wrapped in smog, and her cynicism about God is challenged, because this is exactly the kind of rain he would send down on her for her morning run.   
  
Also, it wasn't her fault.   
  
Paul blames himself, and perhaps he should, as he was dubious about her theory from the beginning. But she was correct, and they would have been there in time to get to the girl if the LAPD hadn't messed up and given them the wrong address. Some idiot transposed two digits and they barged into the wrong building (which, incidentally, wasn't as abandoned as they had been told).   
  
She runs harder. Water slides down her nose, pounds on her shoulders, is probably washing the sunscreen off her arms. Her skin will crack and peel, reveal something new. The car coming down the road doesn't have its blinker on, so she dashes through the cross-street without slowing down, although she keeps her gaze locked on the BMW. Owner probably wouldn't want to mess up the bumper with her body, anyway.   
  
The girl didn't want to live. There was no sign of struggle; she just sat there and let herself be strangled. It's understandable, perhaps, after what had happened to her.   
  
She remembers pictures, arms around her, kisses on the forehead. She remembers tea parties and big, heaping sundaes, ice cream and syrup and whipped cream and too many cherries. They always fell over.   
  
Running on the wrong side of the road, against traffic, and this is a mistake, because it's later than she usually goes and there are too many cars. Too many cars and too many drivers, and every time one goes by, she glances up, a reflex. At least half of the drivers are on their phones, or playing with the radio, or applying make-up, but the rest are looking right at her. She can imagine what they think - skinny girl in too-big running gear, shirt that was made for a fatter girl, drawstring on the pants pulled tight, running in the rain as if her life depends on it. _Anorexic_ , they think, as they look at her bra strap peeking out of the oversized shirt. And let them; it's better than the alternative.   
  
The parents didn't cry. The mother didn't cry. She just put her hands over her mouth and mumbled, _maybe it's for the best_. Maybe it's for the best, because otherwise, every day after, she would have had to look at her broken, disgusting, tainted, dirty, dirty girl, and think about what he had done. Maybe it's all for the best.   
  
She turns around, but this is also a mistake; she can feel their eyes on her back now. She runs harder, but there's a puddle that she jumped over the first time, that she plows right into this time, that disguised the depth of the hole in the road, and she falls. Her wrist aches and the smell of blood and motor oil and smog and sweat suddenly hits her in the face, as if she was sleeping and had just woken up.   
  
She remembers scraped knees and band-aids.  
  
It takes almost 20 minutes to get home. The hydrogen peroxide stings as she sloshes it over her cut.

 

(fin.)


End file.
